Reconstruction
by Procrastinatrix
Summary: In the wake of the war, Xiomara Hooch returns home to find hope and love among the ruins. Hooch/McGonagall. One shot. Post-DH.


_A/N: Just a short "mood" piece written in the hope of cheering somebody up, and because there just isn't enough Kittyhawk out there. For those like me who'll scrounge whatever Mc/H they can get, they're also a subpairing in 'Misconceptions', a fic I have filed as Alicia/Katie. It's nothing stellar, but I'm hoping I might stir better writers than myself to do better._

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They'd burned down her house.

She'd seen the smoke from the brow of the hill as she'd said one last, painful goodbye before apparating away. They'd both known from where it was coming, though neither of them had said it aloud. There hadn't been much said that night; there was no satisfaction to be gotten from words.

Xiomara felt again the injustice of the thing as she flew south above the clouds of a summer shower. As a child, her strange eyes had meant teasing, even from her mates, or funny looks from adults. They'd marked her as magical in a way she couldn't hide. It had taken a long time to come to be comfortable in her own skin. Now apparently she wasn't magical enough for some. What the hell was anybody supposed to do with that?

They'd burned down her fucking house.

Truth be told, she didn't spend much time there. Most of the year they lived at the school. Everything precious to her was at Hogwarts. In the summer they travelled. It was only for a few weeks each August, while Minerva was tied up with meetings and timetables, that she stayed there nowadays, giving her lover space during the day and a refuge at night.

Given all this, she wasn't sure why she was heading back there now. She supposed she needed to see what was left, if there was anything at all.

When she judged by the sun and the mountains that she was in the right place, Xiomara dipped down through the clouds. Droplets of water clung to her robes and her short, spiky hair as she swooped down towards the forest at the edge of which had stood her cottage. She landed in the oak clearing, shouldered her broom, and made her way on foot along the familiar narrow path. It was almost overgrown with summer greenery. Coming this way meant she could put off seeing the blackened walls until the last possible second.

As she neared the back gate, she heard voices.

"No no. Not there. Put it over by the wall."

"Which wall?"

"There aren't that many left to choose from!"

Confused and curious, Xiomara slipped through the gate and made her way around the gable end towards the voices.

The front of the house was open to the elements, though part of the roof was still intact overhanging the living room. Of the three remaining walls, one bore a jagged hole where there had been a window. But instead of the charred plaster and black soot she expected, Xiomara saw freshly painted walls and bright new carpet.

Standing in the middle of it all was Filius Flitwick. His wand waved to and fro as, beside him, Pomona Sprout gave directions for the proper placement of a dresser of Xiomara's mother's, which seemed to have survived the blaze unscathed. Once it was in place, Sprout called something over her shoulder to someone standing in the front garden. Xiomara moved further around the side of the house to get a clearer view.

There stood Minerva McGonagall. Her achingly familiar silhouette looked taller and slimmer than ever against the evening light - a severe shadow against the sun's reddening rays. Xiomara thought the look of irritable exasperation on Minerva's face might be the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen in her life.

"They should have been here an hour ago!" Minerva fumed. She picked her way over some fallen masonry to join the others in the house. "What on earth is the use of any of this if we have no way of rebuilding the walls?"

Sprout and Flitwick said nothing. Xiomara figured it was time to make her presence known.

"You know, I could have you lot done for breaking and decorating."

"Xiomara!"

"Madame Hooch!"

"_Mara!"_

Sprout was nearest, and caught her first in a warm hug. Flitwick grasped her hand warmly, and Xiomara stooped down to kiss his cheek. Then she was in Minerva's arms as they gripped each other tightly enough (Xiomara was sure) to leave bruises. All too soon Minerva pulled away. She was not a woman who could bear witness to strong feeling before an audience. That would come later, Xiomara knew. But she looked her in the eye and smiled as she pulled away.

"I'm so glad you're home," she whispered.

"Well, I guess we can stop running around like headless chickens trying to get all this repaired in time," said Pomona once they'd all said their hellos.

All four of them turned to look at the half-finished redecorating and the fallen masonry.

"Surprise!" offered Minerva, wryly.

Xiomara reached out and caught her hand in hers. Minerva gripped back tightly.

"Come and sit down," said Sprout, conjuring four deck chairs beneath the impromptu verandah formed by what was left of the roof. That sat for a moment, looking about them in silence.

"Oh, hang on just a tick!" exclaimed Flitwick suddenly. He jumped from his seat and began rummaging through a small Gladstone bag in the corner. With a triumphant flourish he produced a bottle of brandy.

"What on earth are you doing with that in your bag?" asked Minerva.

"I saw Sybil leave it behind the wardrobe in the staffroom. Well, I spirited it away as soon as I could. It had to be done, you know," he said a little sadly.

The other three nodded grimly, then conjured glasses.

They talked until the sun set. Xiomara listened with growing horror to the things she had missed in the last five months. For her own part, she spoke of the frustrations of old Qudditch friends in high places, and their apathy over a war which did not yet directly impact upon them.

At last, Pomona and Filius made their excuses and went on their way. Xiomara and Minerva were left alone.

Rising from her chair Xiomara looked around the remains of her house, the familiar furniture looking odd in the uncanny light of indoor fixtures suddenly swamped by the darkness of a surrounding night, with no walls to serve as a barrier.

She felt a gentle touch on her back, and turned into Minerva's embrace. Minerva's lips tasted of brandy, and of safety. The second kiss tasted of months of longing. The third tasted of salt, and Xiomara realised it was from her own tears.

"I thought they'd kill you," she sobbed in confession. "I thought I'd come home to a burnt-out house and a grave."

In response, Minerva placed a hand on Xiomara's stomach and pressed her back against the wall. Her fingers raked through Xiomara's hair, as she pressed a line of kisses against her throat.

"I'm not dead," she whispered fiercely.

Xiomara returned her kisses with equal passion, then softened them and ran loving fingertips along the side of Minerva's face. She was more relieved than any words or tears could express to be here like this tonight.

"We'll rebuild," she said, looking to Minerva for reassurance.

"Yes, we'll rebuild," was her love's soft response. And then, because she was Minerva, she added: "Provided we can find workmen who'll actually turn up when they say they will."

Xiomara's laughter rang like a bell through the night. There were no walls to stand in its way.


End file.
